The Duke’s Sinful Bride (Vows of Sin #5)

Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

T he days at Braemore passed with a slow and painful rhythm. Each morning, Yvette rose early, determined to make something of her new role as duchess, but her efforts only seemed to backfire.

While the grand castle was a marvel to behold, it lacked the warmth of a home. The air inside its stony walls was thick with silence, broken only by the occasional sound of footsteps or a cough from a passing servant. Braemore felt like a fortress in every sense of the word—impenetrable, cold, and isolating.

One of her first decisions had been to implement family meals, particularly breakfast and dinner, where all would sit and dine at the table. It seemed like a small thing, but to Yvette, it was essential.

Meals brought people together, allowed them to talk, share, and form bonds, no matter how tenuous.

So she was motivated to go up to Killian with her idea.

She’d hesitated at the door with her fist raised to knock, but she couldn’t help but pause and imagine what his response would be.

Surely he wouldn’t find it all too tasking, she’d thought, but she hadn’t been prepared for his response when she finally knocked and went in.

Killian’s office was every bit a duke’s office. There were heaps of documents, stacked next to each other on both sides of his huge, mahogany desk, with him in between it all, staring down at the pages in his massive hands.

“To what do I owe this visit?” he asked, glancing at her briefly before his eyes returned to the documents in hand.

“I have come with a simple suggestion. I could not help but notice that every member of this family has their meals separately, and in their chambers. I find that odd.”

Killian grunted but said nothing more, and so Yvette went on.

“I suggest we have our meals together, preferably breakfast and dinner.”

Killian didn’t look up from the documents spread across his desk. His grunt of acknowledgment was more dismissive than anything else.

“You do understand I have a great deal of work to attend to?” he’d asked, finally meeting her eyes with his stormy gray gaze.

“Work can wait,” Yvette had replied firmly. “Family cannot.”

Killian’s lips had twitched, almost as if he might smile, but the expression vanished before it fully formed.

“If it matters so much to ye, fine. But don’t expect miracles.”

Yvette had taken his reluctant approval as a victory. Yet, getting him to actually show up for dinner proved to be a far greater challenge.

“Mr. Warren, would you be kind enough to check on my husband again? It has been well over twenty minutes since he said he’d need five minutes more to come down,” Yvette asked the old butler, who looked like he’d prefer a much easier task.

It was the butler’s third journey up to Killian’s study, and each time he returned, it was the same message from Killian saying he needed a few minutes more.

However, when he returned this time, Killian trailed behind him, a deep frown between his brows.

“You’re late, husband.” Yvette pointed out the second he touched his chair. Killian passed her a glance, and she noticed the tired lines under his eyes.

“I had every reason to be. I have duties that I must see through,” came Killian’s response.

“Yes, duties like showing up at the table for family meals. You are a duke but you are also a father, and a husband.” Yvette couldn’t hide her irritation at his discourtesy.

Killian regarded her for a few seconds, his lips tight as he stood behind the chair.

“I told ye not to hope for miracles, did I not?” he asked and Yvette narrowed her eyes slightly.

“Surely I shouldn’t have to pray for a miracle to get my husband at the dinner table. Don’t you think?”

The dining room was thick with tension, with neither Yvette nor Killian breaking off the eye contact that bound them.

“Very well then,” Killian finally broke the contact, pulling out his chair to sit.

The days that followed were not any different, and each day when Yvette returned to her room after an unsuccessful dinner, she would sigh and wish things were a lot different, and wonder what she would have to do to effect such a change.

As for Maisie, the little girl hardly said a word. She would sit at the table, her gray eyes darting between her father and Yvette, as though uncertain of her place. When spoken to, she answered in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper.

It was maddening.

Each meal left Yvette more determined than ever to make a difference. She refused to let the tension between father and daughter persist. If she’d learned anything during her years at St. Catherine’s, it was that change required patience and perseverance.

Yvette sighed, raising the china cup to her lips as she sipped her tea. In days past, she had found solace in the well-tended garden.

The garden was one of Braemore’s few truly inviting spaces. Rows of perfectly trimmed hedges surrounded beds of vibrant flowers, their colors were a welcome contrast to the gray stone of the castle. The air smelled faintly of roses and rosemary, and the sound of birds singing provided a soothing ambiance.

She tilted her face up to the sun, savoring the warmth, when she heard the familiar shuffle of footsteps. Daisy appeared, her cheeks pink from the brisk air.

“Would you care for more tea, Your Grace?” the young maid asked in a cheerful voice. “Or perhaps some biscuits?”

Yvette smiled, shaking her head. “No, thank you, Daisy. But I do have a question for you.”

“A question, Your Grace?”

“Yes.” Yvette set her cup down on the small wrought-iron table before her.

“What is the duke’s favorite meal?”

Daisy blinked, clearly surprised by the question.

“Oh, that’d be roasted venison stew, my lady. He’s quite fond of it, especially with a bit of bread on the side.”

“Venison stew,” Yvette repeated thoughtfully. “And Maisie? What does she enjoy?”

“Funny enough, it’s the same,” Daisy said with a grin. “The little lady takes after her father more than he knows.”

Yvette’s lips curved into a smile.

“Then it is settled. Venison stew it shall be for dinner. Please inform Mrs. Calloway.”

“As ye wish, Your Grace,” Daisy dipped into a curtsy before hurrying off toward the kitchens.

Feeling a renewed sense of purpose, Yvette gathered her skirts and headed back into the castle.

As she wandered through the halls, she found herself drawn to the sound of laughter—light and soft, as though someone was trying to stifle it.

She followed the sound to one of the drawing rooms, where she found Maisie and her governess.

The little girl was seated on the floor, surrounded by a scattering of wooden blocks. She was stacking them into a precarious tower, her face alight with concentration. Her governess, a stern-looking woman with graying hair, watched from a nearby chair, holding a book in her lap.

As Yvette stepped inside, little girl glanced up, but instead of offering even a smile, she shifted closer to Miss Pemberton, her governess. The governess gave Yvette a pitying smile, one that only deepened Yvette’s unease.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Yvette said gently, kneeling down to the girl’s level.

Maisie glanced at her governess, who nodded encouragingly. Hesitantly, the little girl picked up another block and placed it atop the tower.

“That’s quite an impressive structure,” Yvette said. “Are you an architect in the making?”

Maisie’s lips twitched into the smallest of smiles. “What’s an architect?”

“It’s someone who makes buildings,” Yvette explained. “Grand ones, like Braemore Castle.”

Maisie tilted her head, considering this. “Like Papa?” she asked with a tiny gasp, placing her hands over her lips.

Yvette blinked in surprise. “Your papa built Braemore?”

The governess interjected.

“Not Braemore itself, Your Grace, but several of the buildings here and the newer additions. The duke has quite the skill for such things.”

Yvette turned back to Maisie, intrigued. “Is that true? Do you think you’d like to build things, just like your papa?”

Maisie shrugged, her small shoulders lifting in a way that seemed almost too heavy for her delicate frame. “I don’t know.”

Yvette reached out, tucking a stray strand of dark blonde hair behind the girl’s ear.

“Well, whatever you decide to do, I’m certain you’ll be wonderful at it.”

Maisie had already returned her attention to her blocks, not bothering to respond.

With a quiet sigh, Yvette turned and left the room. She wasn’t one to give up easily, but it was becoming painfully clear that Maisie wasn’t ready to accept her.

The echo of her footsteps on the grand corridor seemed to mock her as she walked.

As she approached the staircase, Yvette noticed a small cluster of three maids gathered in hushed conversation a few paces ahead. They hadn’t yet seen her, and though she might have ignored them, something in their tone caught her attention. They spoke in low murmurs, unaware that Yvette was so near.

“All the duchess’s attempts to bring them together feels desperate if you ask me,” one whispered.

“Poor woman, trying so hard to fit into a place where she’ll never belong. Did you know she was in a nunnery before she came here?” another replied.

Yvette gasped. She had heard enough, but the words stung like a thousand barbs, each one twisting deeper with every syllable.

The third maid, younger than the others, let out a laugh.

“Apparently, she was ruined and sent off to the convent by her father. Can you believe that this is our new duchess?”

Yvette’s stomach churned, and she felt the heat of their words burning her skin.

Her fingers clenched at her sides, and she took a step forward, determined to speak, to defend herself—but before she could, a voice stopped her in her tracks.

“It seems ye three have nothing better to do than gossip,” a deep, angry voice rumbled from behind her.

Yvette whipped around in surprise, her pulse quickening as she found the duke standing there, his gaze hard and dark.

The maids jumped in alarm, their faces pale with the realization that they had been caught.

“Do ye not realize the position my wife holds in this household? She is the duchess and ye all must treat her as such!” he barked.

Then, as though he was not satisfied with berating them, he added, “as of today, ye are all relieved of yer posts.”

The maids sputtered in shock, their faces blushing with humiliation. One of them stammered an apology, while another looked on in disbelief, but Killian stood firm, his eyes narrowing.

“Ye will leave the castle now,” he ordered.

The maids, caught in their shame, quickly turned and fled, their hurried footsteps echoing down the hall. Yvette stood still with shock, not sure whether to feel relief or further discomfort.

As the last maid disappeared into the hallway, Killian turned to her. His gaze softened, just slightly, as if some part of him regretted what had just transpired. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by his usual cool demeanor.

“Are ye all right?” Killian asked, his voice quieter now, though there was still an edge to it.

Yvette lifted her chin, he eyes narrowing as she met his gaze.

“Thank you, Your Grace, but I could’ve handled that on my own. I am perfectly capable of defending myself.”

Killian’s frown deepened, the lines between his brows etched with disapproval.

“No one said ye couldn’t.”

“Then why did you step in?” She challenged, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “Why do you care?”

Killian’s gaze darkened, and for a moment, she thought he might not answer. Then he took a deliberate step closer, his presence filling her senses.

“Because I am responsible for this household and everyone in it, and that includes ye. Ye are my duchess, and no one insults what’s mine.”

Her breath caught in her throat, her pulse hammering at the intensity in his tone.

“I am not yours,” she spat, even as her voice faltered a little. “I am my own person, Your Grace.”

“Aye,” he said, his eyes raking over her face with a heat that made her stomach twist. “Yer own person, but still my wife. Or have ye forgotten that little fact?”

Yvette scoffed, but the sound came out a little shaky. “A fact neither of us particularly wanted.”

“And yet here we are,” he said, his lips quirking into a slow, predatory smirk.

“Here we are. In a cruel twist of fate,” she muttered, refusing to back down as his looming presence filled the space between them. He seemed not to care that behind the door, just a few paces away, sat Maisie and her governess.

“Is that what ye think?” Killian drawled, his voice dipping lower, as though he were issuing a challenge.

“What I think,” Yvette began, her tone sharp as she took one unconscious step toward him, “is that I don’t need you stepping in to protect me from whispers and idle gossip. Especially when there’s truth to what was said.”

Killian’s smirk faded, his jaw tightening as he studied her.

“What truth?”

Yvette licked her bottom lip, but her voice cracked despite herself.

“I already feel like a sore thumb in this household. Like I don’t belong here, no matter how hard I try. And maybe it is pathetic and desperate of me to keep trying to break through walls that won’t ever come down. But you stepping in to defend me only makes it worse. Your defense is just as unsolicited as their words.”

His eyes flared with something unreadable, a tension simmering between them that made her want to step back, but she didn’t.

“Unsolicited or not,” he began, his voice quiet but sharp as steel, “I won’t stand by while anyone undermines ye. Ye are here. Ye are part of this household, whether ye want to be or not.”

“And that makes me yours ?” She shot back, her cheeks flushing as the words slipped out more breathlessly than she intended.

Killian leaned forward slightly, his gaze flickering to her lips for the briefest moment before returning to her eyes.

“Aye,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “It does.”

Yvette’s heart hammered wildly in her chest, and for a brief moment, neither of them spoke, the air between them cracking with tension.

Yvette broke the silence first, her voice trembling with anger and something she didn’t dare name.

“You can’t keep treating me like a mere responsibility, Killian. I am not a possession, and I won’t be treated like one.”

“I don’t see ye as one.”

“I don’t need your protection,” she swallowed hard, her throat dry as her resolve wavered beneath the weight of his intense gaze.

“Perhaps not, but ye’ve got it all the same.”

With that, he stepped back, the tension between them snapping as he put some space between their bodies.

The loss of his nearness left her feeling unsteady, but she refused to show it. She couldn’t.

Killian’s expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker of something almost soft in his eyes. He quickly masked it with his usual indifference.

“Now, if ye will excuse me, Duchess,” he stood up. “I have business to attend to.”